Phantasm
by Arid Tundra
Summary: Preseries. Samcentric. Sam is left alone when John and Dean go on a hunt without him. Plagued by recurring dreams and stalked by shadows, will he be able to cope on his own?
1. Introduction

**DISLCAIMER:** I don't own Supernatural

A/N: I have been bitten by plotbunnies in rapid succession. This is the result of the latest one. The supernatural creatures hinted at in this prologue are real phenomena (well, they're as real as a supernatural being can be.) Please review and tell me what you think.

* * *

He was coming home from school, strolling, taking his time. His friend Kyle was beside him, and they walked together in companionable silence, the idyllic atmosphere putting them at ease. They were both drowsy from the night before, when they had stayed up all night playing poker, and neither could be bothered making small talk. He had won over half of the games; a cocky grin adorned his face as he remembered the tantrum Kyle had thrown over the loss of fifty dollars.

"What's up?" asked Kyle, seeing his friends' grin.

"Nothin'." It was innocent, angelic, and Kyle raised an eyebrow, immediately suspicious.

"Spit it out, Shawn," he demanded, turning to face his friend. Shawn grinned and shook his head slightly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. It was so fun to wind Kyle up. "Come on, man!"

"What if I don't wanna tell you?" Shawn cooed, voice singsong. Kyle scowled and whirled around, walking away from his friend. "Hey, come back!" Shawn called after him, worried and annoyed.

"What if I don't wanna?" Kyle called out over his shoulder, laughing at Shawn's sour expression. "See ya, dickhead! I'm off to meet Di!" He slowed down his stride slightly, wanting to hear Shawn's reaction. He was almost immediately rewarded for his efforts.

"Fine then, I won't tell you, jackass! You and your girlfriend can get bent!"

Laughing, Kyle continued down the street, waving over his shoulder at Shawn, who stood in the middle of the footpath, scowling. It was no fun being beaten at your own game. With a huff, he whirled around, and all of a sudden his vision was filled with darkness. He tried to scream, to jump back, but he was frozen in place, shivering, peering into shadow so thick it was almost opaque. The air was as thick as smoke, and he choked, gagging on a foul odour, the smell reminding him of rotten cabbage. He struggled to draw air into his lungs, whilst sinking to his knees and clawing at his throat as if he could somehow tear open his clogged up windpipe. _Oh god oh god I can't BREATHE - _

Sam woke with a gasp, snapping into a sitting position, still caught in the grips of the vivid dream. He sat there, panting, as one by one his senses registered his surroundings. Upon discovering that he was in his tiny bedroom, sitting (tangled in sheets), on the equally scant bed, he fell back with a sigh, flinging an arm over his forehead and closing his eyes. He lay in that position for a while, reacquainting himself with the real world, before he pushed himself up and out of bed, stumbling slightly and groaning. He had never been a morning person, and the recurring dream he'd been having over the past few days did nothing to change that fact.

It was always the same dream, always ended the same; with Shawn dying, suffocated to death by some unknown being Sam was _sure_ was supernatural. He never got a good look at it though; all he ever saw was darkness, thick shadows. He had surmised, after the third dream, that Shawn was most probably right in front of the creature that was attacking him, and if he could just step back, they would both see what it was.

When he was dressed and had his school bag in hand, he exited the room, still pondering his dream. The apartment was eerily quiet. John and Dean Winchester were on a hunt, investigating ghostly encounters in a youth hostel over in the next town; they had said that they would be back in two days. Well, that was the plan, anyway. It was rare that everything went to schedule in the case of hunting. Frankly, Sam was glad he wasn't on this hunt. Usually he would have complained at being made to stay behind (he was _sixteen_, for gods sake, but his family mollycoddled him as if he was some freaking bubble boy), but he desperately wanted some time alone, especially now that the exams were coming up. And, of course, there was the problem of that dream…

John and Dean had left the day after Sam had started having the dream. They hadn't noticed anything off about him, and Sam was both happy and sad about that fact. On one hand, he was glad they hadn't noticed, because otherwise Dean would be distracted, worrying about his Sammy, when being distracted whilst on a hunt could mean death. On the other hand he was scared, and he wanted to tell them, to share the burden, to explain how he had woken up unable to breathe, scared that he was going to die. Wanted to be comforted, to be told that it was only a dream, and that _dreams can't hurt you_.

The problem was, Sam knew better than that.

* * *

School had been easy. They were revising for the exams, going over things Sam had already memorised, so he had spent most of the day dozing, catching up on some much needed dreamless sleep. By the time the bell for the end of the school day finally rang, Sam had been jittery and restless, anxious to get away. After getting out he was jogging home, trying to get rid of this sudden burst of nervous energy, when he saw it.

He stopped in his tracks, breathing only a little laboured. In the corner of his eye, through his peripheral vision, he saw what looked like a solid mass of shadow. A feeling of dread coming over him, he whipped around to look in the shadows' direction.

There was nothing there.

A thrill of foreboding went through him. Shivering, Sam started jogging in earnest, anxious to get home, unwilling to admit to himself that he may have just caught a glimpse of the villain that was in his dreams. _Dreams aren't real. _He'd been having nightmares since before he could remember, and none of them had ever come true. _Yeah, but none of them were like these ones._

When he reached his home he was unable suppress a sigh of relief, slamming the front door shut behind him and leaning against it, tired more by fear than by physical exertion. He tipped his bed back against the hard wood, taking deep, calming breaths, and closing his eyes at the same time. For a few moments he stood there, letting his body relax, and then he stepped forward with a sigh, dropping his bag on the couch and throwing himself down with it.

Three hours later he lay in the same position, watching the television religiously. He was much too comfortable to get up, but he wasn't so comfortable that he could let himself go to sleep, let himself dream. He was about to doze off, despite all his willpower, when a shrill noise struck his eardrums. He had jumped off the couch and dropped into a defensive stance before he realised what the sound was. The phone was ringing.

Rolling his eyes at his stupidity, Sam walked over to the phone and took it off the hook. Looking at the clock, he realised it was seven thirty; time for the daily call. Whenever the family was split up because of a hunt, John or Dean would call Sam every day at the same time, to check up on him and tell him about their progress.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Sammy," Dean's tired voice came through the phone. "You alright?"

"I'm… fine, Dean. What about you? You sound really tired."

Dean laughed humourlessly. "Sure am. There's gotta be a million fucking ghosts in this damn hostel. Just when you think you've solved the problem, burned enough bones, another one comes outta the woodwork. Dunno how long this'll take, Sammy." Suddenly, the tone of Dean's voice changed; he was worried. Sam rolled his eyes. _About me, like always._ "You sure you're alright, Sammy? 'Fine' isn't the most comprehensive answer, little brother."

"Wow, didn't know you knew words that big, Dean," Sam drawled. "And when I say fine, I _mean_ fine."

"Jeez, hold back on the snark. You sound more bitchy than fine." Sam bit his lip as he contemplated whether telling Dean about the dream, the shadow, was a good idea. He quickly came to the conclusion that whining to his brother about bad dreams when he was sixteen, almost a freaking adult, was much too embarrassing.

"Sorry, Dean." Sam sighed. "And I'm fine. Truly."

"Good." Dean's voice was firm. "See ya later, okay?"

"Yep. Talk to you tomorrow." Sam hung up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark figure hovering in front of the fridge. He paused, putting the phone back on the cradle slowly, and then whirled around. He was quick enough to see the edge of a shadowy cape whipping around the corner, down the hall, and sprinted after it, flicking the hallway light on. Squinting against the sudden bright light, Sam looked around, inspecting every inch of the hallway.

The creature was nowhere to be seen.


	2. Freedom

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Supernatural, The Sixth Sense, Coke, The Beastie Boys or Yoda

A/N: This chapter contains a reference to a movie that definitely wasn't around when Sam was sixteen… but oh well. I suppose it doesn't really matter. This chapter also contains foul language and possibly some OOCness from Sam. I just couldn't resist putting a lot of rebellious!Sam in here. Please review!

* * *

Sam awoke with a jolt, clawing at his throat. It took him longer than usual to register his surroundings: realise that he could breathe. That he wasn't suffocating along with Shawn. Panting, he stumbled out of his bed and into the bathroom, catching himself on the edge of the sink and resting his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror. He controlled his breathing, forcing himself to keep calm. _It was the dream. Again._ But this time, it had been different; more… intense. Urgent. As though it was desperately trying to tell him something.

Sighing, he raised his head to survey himself in the mirror. He groaned at what he saw. His eyes were shadowed by his long, dark bangs, and also by the purplish bags below them. His skin was pale where it wasn't dark with sleeplessness, and it had a pallid tinge to it. All in all, he looked a lot like a vampire. He heaved another sigh, lifting his chin slightly.

What he saw there made him freeze.

There were long scratches down his throat. Gulping, Sam leaned closer to get a better look. _Did I do that?_ When he looked down at his hands, his stomach did a flip flop. The tips of the fingers were bloodied: and was that _skin_ under his fingernails? Abruptly feeling light headed, Sam swayed over to the toilet and collapsed onto the closed lid. Cradling his head in his hands (careful to avoid the fingertips), he closed his eyes tight, gritting his teeth. Now that he had seen the scratches, he was really feeling them. _God. I did that to myself?_ He shivered. _These dreams are really getting out of hand._ He needed to do something about them - quick. Next time he had the dream, who was to say he would wake up at all?

_Sure, I need to do something. But what?_ He sighed and ran a hand through lank hair. _I'll have a shower, and then I'll think about it._ Ignoring the tiny voice in his head that informed him he was procrastinating, Sam did just that. One of the good things about being alone like this was that he didn't have to share the hot water with anyone. This resulted in a long, hot, relaxing shower.

Towel wrapped around his waist, feeling more awake then he had in days, Sam went into the kitchen to fix himself some breakfast. He had just opened the fridge to get out the butter when he saw it. A shadow hovering in the corner of his vision.

Sam whipped around; nothing was there. He let out an exasperated sigh, turning back to the fridge and grabbing the container of spread with unnecessary force. Unlike the first shadowy figure he had glimpsed (if these things were more than just a figment of his imagination), this one brought with it no feeling of dread: it just annoyed him. It was frustrating to glimpse things from the corners of your eyes, only to have them disappear as soon as you tried to really _see_ them. He knew that this certain shadow creature was just toying with him.

_So some are benign and some are malevolent? Like ghosts?_ That seemed to be the case. Wondering why on earth his family hadn't encountered something like this before, he shoved his buttered toast into his mouth and went to his room to get changed.

He had just pulled on some ratty jeans when the phone started to ring. Cursing, he shoved a t-shirt over his head before racing into the lounge and picking the thing up.

"Hello?"

"Hey Sam! Hamish here."

"Oh, uh, hi Hamish. What's happening?"

"Are you free, Sam? Like, right now?"

"Uh… yeah. I am. Why?"

"Well then come over to my house! Tim and Alan are here, and we think Carlos is coming in a little while." He lowered his voice to a secretive whisper. "We're playing basketball, man! Be on my team, okay?"

Sam chuckled. "Well, I dunno… What will you give me for it?"

"Oh, come on, Sammy, don't be like that!" When Sam stayed silent, Hamish heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Please? I love you long time!"

Laughing, Sam responded. "Okay, okay, sure. When should I come?"

"As soon as possible! Oh, and get here before Fatty over there eats all the grub…" Sam laughed again as the phone was put down, a 'hey, I heard that!' filtering faintly through the line before it was hung up. He stood holding the dead phone for a few moments more, wondering what to do. Then he shrugged, putting the phone down onto the receiver and sitting on the couch to pull on his sneakers.

Another bonus of being alone whilst his family were hunting was that Sam could be more social. Usually, if he wanted to go out with a friend, said friend would have to pass Dean's absurdly strict critique (and for some reason only guys had to pass this; Dean pretty much encouraged him to hang out with girls), and the outing would have to not clash with a hunt. Because of Dean's pickiness and the fact that they were hunting all the time, Sam hardly ever left the house except to go to school. He knew that they were just protecting him in their own paranoid way, but it seriously got on his nerves.

Standing up, Sam grabbed a dark blue hoodie from his room, along with his keys, before exiting the apartment. _What they don't know can't hurt them._ It had actually become a sort of motto he thought it so much. Because what John and Dean didn't know was that, despite their strict rules, Sam still went out anyway. He was sixteen; and like most sixteen year olds, the one thing he most wished for was the freedom to do what he wanted, when he wanted. Another thing he had in common with many sixteen year olds was the fact that he had no qualms about gaining this freedom the dishonest way. And, of course, once he had a taste of that freedom, he had wanted more. Wanted to be _normal._

At first he'd only snuck out once or twice a month; only when he _really_ wanted to. Now it had escalated to a couple of times a week. If John and Dean had let him go hunting more often, they probably would have noticed his increased stealth. It was a hard job sneaking around two experienced hunters even when they were fast asleep. As such, Sam had to work extremely hard to not get noticed. He was now able to sneak out so easily he sometimes wondered if his family knew about it and was letting him go out anyway; letting him have his freedom. _But that can't possibly be the case._

Slamming the apartment door shut behind him, Sam set off on the short walk to Hamish's house.

* * *

By the time he stumbled out of his friends' house, half full coke bottle in his hands, it was already ten thirty. This information was lost on Sam, who was thinking about much more interesting things than the nightly phone call that he had missed. Things like the way the world was tilting. And that lamppost which seemed to be creeping across his path, until it was in just the right position for the drunk teen to crash into.

With a grunt of pain, he pushed himself away from the offending lamppost. _Supernatural bastard. I'll hunt your skinny ass down. _Sam whirled around, stumbling with the sudden change in direction, just in time to catch a flailing Tim. The bulky sixteen year old fell into Sam, knocking the skinner, ganglier teen over. Sam let out a hiss of pain as his spine banged against the lamppost, and Tim laughed at him whilst inspecting the new hole in his jeans caused by gravel burn. He poked the graze, giving a surprised yelp when it caused him pain. It was Sam's turn to laugh, and he took another swig from the bottle of rum and coke before giving Tim his professional hunters' opinion on the wound.

"Chicks dig scars, man." Yes, Sam had learned from the best.

"They don't dig burns victims," Carlos pointed out, leaning against the neighbours' car and taking a long draught from his own bottle of vodka and coke. Everybody in the group was drinking a beverage of coke mixed with some sort of alcohol; Hamish had found the old soft drink bottles under his bed when he had been forced to clean out his bedroom before his parents went away, and didn't want them to go to waste. Even if they were flat and about five months out of date. "If that was true, burns victims would be the pimps of this universe, my friend." Carlos was odd when he was drunk – strangely enough, he was also odd when he was sober.

"I once knew a pimp," Alan informed everybody, having just stumbled out of Hamish's front door. He was oddly wise when drunk; Hamish had decided that he would, from then on, be called Yoda. _Not that we get drunk often enough to notice things like that. Of course not. _Sam gave a hysterical little giggle, and Tim joined in with his own throaty guffaws. Ignoring Alan's latest philosophical findings – which Carlos was listening to with rapt attention – he decided instead to stare at Tim with wide eyed awe.

"Dude," Sam breathed, "You read my mind."

"I can reeeead your miiiiiiind," Tim informed him, waving his arms about in what he obviously considered a menacing manner.

"You wanna know a secret?" Sam breathed, making a show of glancing around for eavesdroppers and then leaning in closer to Tim, who awaited the bequeathing of the secret with bated breath.

"Yeah, tell me!"

"Okay…" Sam glanced around again and leaned even closer, hissing his next sentence. "_I see dead people._"

"Oh my god," Tim breathed in awe, "I saw a dead person once." He and Sam both gave a start when Hamish suddenly popped up beside them, grinning maniacally, own bottle of booze clutched protectively to his chest.

"So have I," he admitted. "It was at my great uncles' funeral. He was like, lying in the casket!"

"No you dick, dead people as in ghosts!" Sam shoved at Hamish, causing the inebriated teen to sprawl on the grass, limbs flailing. Tim and Sam forgot all about their highly serious conversation, instead focusing their energy on pointing and laughing at their fallen friend.

It had only taken Sam ten minutes to get to Hamish's house, and by then the hyperactive teen had already been inspired as to what action to take in the case of the unused coke. They had skipped the basketball game and instead gotten straight into the drinking – something Tim was very glad of. "Basketball's so strenuous," he had informed them, very serious. "Especially when you're a benchwarmer. Coach always puts me in that position – he reckons I have some major skills."

This had prompted Alan to thump him on the shoulder and regard him with a proud, solemn gaze. "It's a hard job," he said, "but someone's got to do it."

"Dude, why don't they just use a heater?" Everyone ignored Carlos's comment – they had given up being weirded out by his peculiar opinions. "The establishment sucks. They beat us down until we're no longer individuals, just cogs in a huge, ugly machine of slave labour disguised as education."

"Hear, hear!" Hamish said, giggling. "Let's be monkey wrenches, not cogs!"

"You are wise, my friend," Carlos informed him solemnly. "We must stop this monster in its tracks. We must fight."

"For our right to party?" Tim suggested with a dopey grin, gulping down his own combination of coke and gin. His size let him hold his alcohol easier than most, though Carlos was exactly the same drunk as he was sober. Alan and Sam were the lightweights of the group; Sam's size was all leg, and Alan was only four foot six.

If anyone noticed the bright pink scratches down Sam's throat, they didn't say anything. Just like they didn't mention the bruises down Alan's arms (he was wearing a t-shirt) which were given to him by his father, and the fact that Hamish's dad had disowned him when he came out, and now didn't speak to him at all except to make snide remarks about his sexual orientation. All of them knew that there was something strange about Sam's family; they had accepted this, and didn't make a big deal of it.

It had been a long time since Sam had been a part of such a tight circle of friends. In other towns the students had shoved him away because he was different to them - because they didn't understand him. This time he had found a group of accepting people who didn't ask nosy questions and didn't demand that he meet any sort of social standard. But the thought that he would soon leave them, go to yet another school, put a damper on his happiness. He hated the hunting life – hated it with a passion. Hated how it forced him to cut ties with such great friends, hated how it made him paranoid and world weary.

So now, Sam was rebelling. And it didn't just stop at sneaking out of the house and taking part in underage drinking. He had smoked weed on a few occasions; Carlos lived on the stuff, and brought a few joints to their gatherings now and then. Sam vividly remembered the time that they had taken the drug in the school bathrooms just twenty minutes before classes started for the morning. They had quickly stuffed their mouths full of peppermints and sprayed deodorant everywhere, and then gone to their respective classes praying to whatever deity who might have been listening that they wouldn't be caught. Thankfully, none of them had been discovered, though Sam reckoned it was more due to the negligence of the teachers than anything else.

The time that he had smoked a normal cigarette was also a very vivid memory, and that was because of the severe coughing fit it had caused him. He'd then decided that he wouldn't ever try smoking again, though he knew that most smokers got past the coughing fit stage. He was afraid that if he _did_ get past that stage, he'd end up getting addicted and thus caught. There was no doubt in his mind that Dad and Dean would notice if he continuously smelt like smoke.

If his family ever found out about any of this, they would kill him. They themselves had made it clear that if Sam ever did something as stupid as take drugs, drink underage or smoke cigarettes they would tear him a new one.

Sometimes Sam wished he could tell them about all the things he had done, just to shove it in their faces.

At eleven o'clock, Sam and Alan were stumbling home together; they lived in the same part of town, which happened to be the worst part. Hamish had needed them out of the house before midnight, when his parents would be returning from their night out. That and the fact that the lightweights of their group had consumed way too much alcohol had prompted Tim to 'relieve them of their drinks' and send them home.

Alan groaned as he crashed into a rubbish bin, bringing Sam down with him. Sam let out his own groan, clutching at his head, the change in altitude reeking havoc on his senses. They were both coming out of their drunken stupor, and neither were pleased about it.

"We're gonna feel like crap in the morning," Alan moaned, clutching the bin and hauling himself up. Sam crawled a few paces before launching to his feet and stumbling forward, arms waving wildly, just managing to prevent himself from falling over again. This effort went to waste, however, when Sam was forced to go on all fours once more and expel the contents of his stomach onto the pavement. "So are the people on this street when they see your mess, man. You're gonna make me puke."

When Sam's stomach was empty, he sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "God. I forgot Dean's call." He groaned. "He's gonna go ballistic."

"So's my old man, if I don't get back soon."

"And my Dad will skin me alive for making them worry."

"Mum's gonna be so disappointed in me. She hates it when I do stuff like this. Keeps muttering bullshit like 'sins of the father' when I come home drunk."

"Why did we drink so much, man?"

"Fucked if I know. Seemed like the right thing to do at the time."

It was when they were coming down from their high that Alan and Sam began lamenting. It was almost like they were competing with each other about who would be in deeper shit, and it was also one of the rare times that Sam regretted his rebellion. What was the point of doing all this crap if it didn't affect the people you were rebelling against? _Maybe I should go on a hunt when I'm high._ God, what a fiasco that would be.

Ten more minutes into their extremely rough journey, they reached Alan's house. Thankfully, he had regained some of his balance by that point, so Sam didn't have to support him and try to get up the stairs that led to his front door at the same time. He murmured a quick 'goodbye and good luck' to his friend before continuing to his own place, which was a few streets over. Usually he would have been worried about walking around alone in the rough part of town late at night: but, frankly, he felt too shitty to care.

It was when he was at the top of his street that it happened.

First, he saw the now familiar shadows flickering in the corners of his eyes. Sensing that they weren't malevolent, he ignored them and continued to stumble home. He had tunnel vision, and it was centred directly on his front door. Focused entirely on the haven that was their crappy little apartment.

That's why he didn't see the creature that clamped a dark hand over his mouth and wrapped an arm around his waist. He froze in terror, a shiver of dread wracking his body; and then he came to life, gasping against the shadowy hand, trying desperately to breathe, _BREATHE, damnit –_

This was a dream; it had to be a dream, because how could he be dying the same way that Shawn had? _It's not supposed to happen like this!_ He kicked at the creature, clawed, screamed, bit at its shadowy hand – still it did not withdraw. The pungent stench of rotting cabbage invaded his nostrils and he gagged, clenching shut watering eyes, movements gradually stilling. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't move –

And then suddenly he was released, thumping down to kneel on the pavement, head bowed as if in prayer. The oppressing presence of the shadow creature was suddenly gone, the smell of rotting cabbage just a faint memory. Still he sat there, in shock, before his brain reconnected itself to his body.

Launching himself to his feet, he sprinted home, not looking back once.


	3. Ally

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Supernatural or The Stepford Wives

A/N: Chapter three, and the action is warming up now. Please review and tell me what you think!

* * *

When Sam woke up the next morning scratching at his throat hard enough to reopen his earlier wounds, he knew he would have to quickly solve the problem of his recurring dream.

_I suppose I should try __to find out where Shawn died,_ Sam thought, wincing as he peered at his reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror. The scratches were much deeper than they were last time. _I should have paid more attention to the dreams._ But he had ignored them, instead choosing to go out and get drunk with his friends, shirk his responsibility; both to his family and to Shawn. And oh God, he'd missed the nightly phone call. He groaned as he imagined Dean speeding away from whatever hunt they were on, foot flat on the Impala's accelerator. Racing to save his Sammy, his little brother, from a nonexistent danger.

Sam continued to study his reflection, grimacing. _Okay, maybe not so nonexistent._

His face was a gory mess, his once tan neck now painted a dark reddish brown by dried blood. It looked as though his throat had been messily slit by an inexperienced murderer, the cut inconsistent and jagged. He washed the mess off as quickly as he possibly could and inspected the scratches beneath. There were too many to count, scratches over scratches over scratches, the wounds made messy by panic, desperation. The result was a four inch wide red band stretching across his throat: a bloody bandage.

Bandages. That's what he needed. Muttering darkly (he was gonna look like such an idiot with a bandage covering his whole freaking neck), he went to the first aid kit and found some cream, a large patch of gauze and a roll of bandages. By this time the scratches had started leaking again; he grabbed the towel he had used in the shower yesterday and used it as a compress. Once the blood had stopped flowing, he rubbed on a generous amount of cream, hissing at the burning sensation it caused his already very tender neck. Next he gently stuck on the gauze, grudgingly thankful that his paranoid family always kept two fully stocked first aid kits. He used the entirety of the small roll of bandages on his neck, making sure they were wound as tight as possible. It was a horribly awkward place to have a wound when you had to fix it yourself; as such, it took Sam half an hour to finally finish the job.

By that time it was ten thirty am, and his hangover had decided to suddenly sneak up on him, smacking him upside the head with a metaphorical pan. Wincing and massaging his temples, he went back to the first aid kit and grabbed himself a packet of headache tablets. He proceeded to take two and then staggered a few steps before collapsing face down on his bed. What he needed now was a dark room, a bed, and sweet oblivion from the pounding pain in his skull. _God, I hate hangovers._ How many times had he gotten a hangover and informed himself he would never drink again?

_That question is best left unanswered_, was Sam's last fuzzy thought before he fell into a deep sleep.

Dean sat on the edge of the thin, hard mattress dumped on top of a dirty plank of wood that was posing as his current bed. The motel he and his father were currently staying at was crappy even for their low brow norm. It was one small room containing two horribly uncomfortable single beds, the smallest kitchen Dean had ever seen, and a tiny table around which stood two three legged chairs. The brown, water stained, mouldy walls hadn't seen paint since they had first been erected, which Dean was guessing was probably somewhere around the same time the pyramids were built.

The job him and his Dad were on wasn't anywhere near coming to a close. What was supposed to be an easy salt and burn had turned into a hunt for the names and gravesites of new spirits who had apparently decided that the best time to start haunting a place was just after it had just been cleared of its former ghostly inhabitants. Right now, John Winchester was talking yet again to the owner of the youth hostel, trying to get info on the newest visitors to the godforsaken hellhole.

Well, that was what Dean thought of it as, anyway.

He was alone in the hotel room, had just made the nightly call to the youngest Winchester. And there had been no answer.

So he tried again, and again. And again. And still, the phone kept ringing and ringing, and there was never an answer. _Fuck._ This was just fucking great. What trouble had the kid gotten himself into now? Dean swallowed convulsively against the lump that had suddenly formed in throat. Before he had been concerned; now he was experiencing a mix of worry and anger. Anger at Sam, who always seemed to get into shit. Anger at himself, because he wasn't there to get Sam out of it.

But nothing could possibly have happened. Their current hometown was a sleepy little place, extremely idyllic. Full of smiling wives and hardworking husbands, families with two kids and a dog. _Like freaking Stepford,_ Dean thought with a shiver.

And yet, he still felt the beginnings of a panic stirring in his stomach. Something had to be wrong. Sammy wouldn't just not answer the phone – he wasn't like that, or at least, Dean thought he wasn't. Maybe this new, rebellious _Sam_ was different. He scowled, drumming his fingers against his right knee whilst his other leg shook with suppressed energy. Because he needed to _move_. To _go_.

He had to get to Sam.

In a flurry of movement, Dean launched himself from the bed, grabbing his bag and the keys to the Impala off the tiny table as he strode past. The motel keys he left in the room, leaving the door unlocked. It wasn't like there was anything worth stealing in there, especially as John and Dean hadn't bothered to unpack and John had taken his bags in the truck when he had driven to the youth hostel a few hours earlier.

The oldest Winchester could do the hunt on his own – right now; Dean had to check on Sammy.

He paused just before he left the room, and then went back inside to scribble a note down for his fathers' sake. Then he near ran out of the shithole that was the deserted motel, ignoring the flicker of shadow in the corner of his right eye, the shiver that went down his spine.

He was only thinking about one thing, and that was driving back as fast as he possibly could.

_Oh fuck._

Sam was panicking before he even woke up from the vivid vision, jerking upright in a flurry of sheets. He flung the knot of bedclothes to the floor and stumbled to his feet, a sense of urgency gripping him. If what the dream showed him was the truth there were shadow creatures where his family was too. And they were malevolent, judging by the shiver that had gone down Dean's spine…

It was only when he was dressed and frantically trying to tug on his sneakers as he hopped around that he realised his panic was useless. Breathing heavily, he collapsed onto the couch, rubbing at his eyelids with the tips of his fingers. _That… vision was about what was happening last night. Dean should be here by now._ He groaned, grinding his palms into his eyelids. _Should_ be here. Wasn't. God, something had happened to him. Something bad had happened to Dean. And all because Sam was too busy being rebellious, too busy being smug about his ability to fool his family. Too busy getting drunk.

He had missed the damn phone call. All this shit was happening because he couldn't be bothered going home, just for a few minutes, to answer the goddamn phone. He'd made Dean so worried that he hadn't noticed the danger he was in.

Damn his brother for being so goddamn noble, so goddamn _selfless_.

_Why does he care about me so much?_

Roughly wiping tears from suddenly leaking eyes, Sam stood and began to pace back and forth. Seven steps. Turn. Repeat. He had to do something. He had to find a way to get rid of the shadow creatures. And Shawn was the place to start. But were the dreams a warning? Or a clue?

But right now, Sam didn't care what the recurring dreams meant. He would walk around the town all day and night if he had to, would find the street that Shawn had met his end on.

He wouldn't stop searching until he knew how to get rid of the shadows. He owed it to everyone: to his family. To Shawn. The people that he'd let down.

He slammed the front door shut behind him. He was going hunting.

* * *

_God, I really need to get rid of these things,_ Sam growled to himself as he walked down yet another suburban street. They all looked the same, and Sam found himself agreeing with Dean's opinion that the place might as well be renamed Stepford. How many houses had he walked by in which a cheerful-seeming wife was baking in the kitchen? How many times had he seen two kids – a boy and a girl – playing together on a perfectly manicured bright green lawn? Too many times to possibly be natural.

And those 'things' – the shadow people – he was seeing them everywhere now. He kept jerking his head around whenever he saw a dark flicker in the corner of his eye, but the things were always much too fast, diving behind obstacles as quickly as he turned his head. _Great. I've already got a whopping great bandage around my neck and now I'm developing a nervous twitch._ He probably looked like a lunatic.

Another flicker. Sam paused in mid stride as cold fear shot through him. The air around him suddenly felt thick, heavy, the atmosphere burdened by some terrible presence. He gulped, frozen to the spot, unwanted terror gripping his mind. This newest creature was different… there was something in the feel of it, something inherently evil. He was starting to pant, desperately trying to draw air with the consistency of water into aching lungs and failing. _Not again –_

He set off at a run, turning into the next street, lead by a half formed idea that if he got off that street, he could escape. It was not to be. If anything, the air seemed to get heavier as he ran further down the new street. He was gasping, lungs on fire, legs pumping, throat sore and clammy, and _god_ now he couldn't breathe, couldn't move any longer, kneeling down on the hard concrete of the pavement on suddenly weak legs. It was over, it was coming, he could feel it, see the tendrils of shadow creeping towards him, _taste_ the rotting cabbage –

And then someone gripped his arm, lugged his unresponsive body indoors. Where he was now Sam couldn't tell, didn't know, he was _dying_, suffocating, and that made him sorta preoccupied. And then a door was slammed, and Sam took in a great, shuddering gasp – he could breathe again, he was _alive._ Alive.

He sat on a bare wooden floor, back against a hard wall, head bowed, body trembling as he swallowed down great gulps of air. _Damn,_ but suffocating sucked ass.

"Are you alright?" The voice was male but rather high-pitched, laced with concern and a slight tremble of fear.

"Huh?" was Sam's eloquent response. He lifted his head, damp bangs falling back onto his forehead once more, squinting up in the direction of the voice.

"How do you feel? Did it hurt you?"

Sam frowned, still light headed from the lack of oxygen. "No. It was about to, though." He blinked up at the man. "You saved me. But you aren't Dean."

"Dean?"

"Dean. Normally, Dean saves me."

"You… need saving a lot?"

Another slow blink. "Yeah." Then, feeling much more like himself, he gave a harsh bark of laughter. "I guess I do."

* * *

"Are you sure you're okay?"

With great effort, Sam managed to restrain himself from rolling his eyes in exasperation. How many times had he asked that question? He was sitting at a small, highly polished wooden dining table, slowly sipping a cup of tea. He had never had tea before; there was no doubt in his mind that Winchester men _did not_ drink tea. Too girly. It was lucky that Sam didn't really think of himself as one of the Winchester men then; he liked it.

"Yep, I'm fine. Thanks for saving me and everything."

"Oh, no problem," the small old man said, beaming. He spoke with an almost untainted British accent. He was a foot shorter than Sam, a little hunchbacked, and he had next to no hair. A small pair of owl-like glasses rested on the bridge of his knobbly nose. "I'm just glad I reached you in time. You're safe in here; I burned a smudge stick in every room of the house, and the backyard." Sam nodded; he knew about white sage. Native Americans believed that if you made a smudge stick – which was a bundle of white sage – and burned it, the place in which it was burned was cleared of evil spirits. "The shadow creatures haven't been in here since."

"How do you know about them anyway?"

The man took a long sip of tea – Sam could tell he had just found a touchy subject. He then cleared his throat and looked down into his mug of tea as though he was divining from it. "There was boy, ten years ago. On this street, he… he was killed. I had always felt the presence of shadow people here, but they had never attacked anyone. But then again, none of them felt as malevolent as the one that attacked that boy. It's still here… it's what you felt."

"The boy… was his name Shawn?" Sam could hardly believe his luck. Had he just stumbled upon the answers he needed?

The man gave him a startled look. "How did you know?"

"I've been having these recurring dreams. About Shawn." Sam cleared his throat nervously. He had never told anyone about his strange dreams, the dreams he suspected were visions, and he still wasn't sure that it was a good idea. "About him getting suffocated. By that shadow creature… the one that smells like rotting cabbage."

The British man gaped at him in astonishment for a few moments before taking a hasty gulp of tea. Sam followed suit. "Rotting cabbage? Yes, that's him. I've seen him, but only once. I saw him when… when…"

Sam felt his heart sink. "You saw Shawn getting killed?"

His whole face crumpled, and with a kind of horror Sam realised that he was close to tears. "I could've done something about it. But instead I just stood there and stared like an idiot!"

"Wait, what? What could you have done?" _Does he blame himself?_

"I'm friends with a man. He… hunts supernatural creatures. He has this sword, this katana. It's the only thing I know of that can kill shadow creatures. And I had it! It was in my house when Shawn was being attacked! But I didn't do anything!" His voice dropped and he looked down into his cup of tea once more. "I was too scared."

"I know what you mean," Sam said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. "You couldn't have done anything. Don't blame yourself." When the man continued to gaze down into his teacup Sam hurried to change the subject. "Where's the sword now?"

"My friend still has it," the man said, voice rough. "He lives in the next town over." Sam tried not to snort at the irony. It was in the same place Dad and Dean were hunting? Jeez. "Why?"

Sam sighed. "Look, my family… we're hunters. Like your friend." The mans jaw dropped open. "My Dad and my brother are on a hunt in the same place that your friend lives. Investigating a haunted youth hostel. I had this… vision. They're in danger from the shadow creatures, but they don't know it." _And Dean… what happened to delay him from getting here?_

"Oh." The man studied him appraisingly, and Sam stirred in his seat, uncomfortable with the attention. "I see. You know, you have to have some psychic powers to feel the presence of the shadow people. Sure, normal people can sense them, but they don't know what they're feeling. I've never encountered a psychic as strong as you before. Visions." He peered at Sam with something akin to awe. "Amazing. So you think that you're seeing these things for a reason? That you're seeing them because you can stop them from happening?"

_Yes, I am the Chosen O__ne,_ Sam informed himself, half sarcastic. "I suppose so."

"I see." The man drank down the rest of his tea in one large gulp. "Right, lets get going then! No time to waste, yes?" Sam blinked at him as he sat up, eyes sparkling with excitement, and started to pace. "I can be ready to leave in an hour. I better call Joe and tell him we're coming. Can you be ready by then? You might as well go and pack some things to take with you. Better yet, leave for your house now and I'll pick you up later."

"Huh?" Sam was lost.

"We're driving to visit my friend! I can't wait to get rid of these dastardly creatures once and for all!" The man was filled with feverish excitement; Sam was under the impression that he didn't get out very much at all. "What are you waiting for? Off you go!"

"Oh, um, okay."

Stuck in a car with him for two hours? This was going to suck.


	4. Katana

**DISCLAIMER:** I don't own Supernatural, Volvo, or the Chevy Impala

A/N: This chapter is a little longer than usual, and I think it's the best so far. Please review.

* * *

"So, Sam…"

Gritting his teeth, Sam continued to stare out of the passenger window at the extremely tedious scenery. Hadn't they driven past this same field about twenty times already?

"Sam?"

God, but this was one of the worst car rides Sam had had the misfortune to go on. It easily topped the many rides in which the car was full of tension between Sam and his father, the air taught with too many words unsaid and too many feelings bottled up. The guy just. Wouldn't. Shut. Up!

"Hey, are you alright? Can't you hear me?"

_Christ._

"Yes, I can hear you." He obviously didn't hear or decided to ignore Sam's decidedly irritated and slightly threatening tone.

"Oh, good." _Crap, I've shown interest. There'll be no stopping him now._ "We're here." At that, Sam sat bolt upright, whipping to face his unwanted companion. The small man chuckled at Sam's surprise as he slowed down, turning the car into a long dirt driveway. The small old Volvo gave a strange coughing sound as the British man (Sam had found out that his name was Albert) pressed down on the accelerator once more; the two of them shared a nervous glance. The car sounded as though it was about ready to give up.

After an extremely shaky ride down the long driveway, Albert pulled up outside a large old house. It was surrounded by overgrown grass, the windows grimy and covered with cobwebs both outside and in. The porch was sagging, the wood dark and water stained; it seemed to be littered with holes. Sam frowned. The house looked abandoned. Had Albert told him the truth? Where was this 'Joe'?

The car gave a shudder before the engine abruptly died down. Albert frowned at the steering wheel as Sam continued to study the house. The front door was wide open, and as Sam watched a small gust of wind made a rusty wind chime hung just inside the frame tinkle softly, swaying slightly before stilling once more. The eerie sound made the small hairs on the nape of his neck stand up. This place… it looked, felt, exactly like a haunted house. He didn't know if it was instinct or some sixth sense, but Sam could tell that the house was imbued with despair, soaked into the walls like a bloodstain.

"This is where your friend lives?" Sam's voice was doubtful as he turned to look at Albert once more. The man jerked a bit before he turned an earnest, worried gaze on the teenager.

"Well, yes," Albert frowned, anxiously chewing on his bottom lip. "I haven't seen him for a long while now, but I'm sure he hasn't moved…"

"I thought you said you were going to call him, tell him that we're coming," Sam stated, frowning at the old man. Albert shifted nervously in his seat, seemingly unable to meet Sam's eyes.

"Erm, I forgot… Let's just check it out anyway. Something must have happened to Joe!" And suddenly he was out of the car, near running to the house. Sam raised an eyebrow at Albert's retreating back. He was obviously hiding something, and Sam didn't know if it was serious or not. The guy struck him as a bit of a drama queen; perhaps he was just embarrassed? He didn't seem like he could do much harm. Either way, Sam would have to be cautious around him.

Sam followed Albert over to the house, wading slowly through the sea of waist-high grass. The closer he got to the house, the colder the atmosphere became. The feeling was familiar, and Sam was almost certain that this house was haunted. It certainly hadn't been approached by human beings for many years. Albert was standing by the front door, peering into the dark hallway, apparently scared to enter. Sam found himself studying him as though hoping he would see something that hadn't been there before, something that would tell him whether or not he could really trust his peculiar little man.

He was snapped out of his reverie when Albert turned and beckoned him into the house. He didn't know if it was just his growing mistrust towards the man, but was Albert looking rather – pale? Guilty? Ignoring his suspicions, both towards Albert and the house that he was sure was haunted; he walked in through the front door.

It didn't really come as a surprise when it slammed shut behind him.

Sighing in exasperation, he turned around and stalked silently back to the door before carefully laying an ear against it. Through the scratched, water stained wood he thought he heard – whispers? He frowned, pressing his ear against the door even harder. It didn't sound like Albert was doing the whispering – in fact, he doubted Albert was even there anymore. _Bastard._

Scowling, Sam turned and crept down the dark hallway. Old, tarnished mirrors and paintings hung crooked on the damp walls, the reflective surfaces glowing softly in the slivers of light streaming through the cracks in the roof. As he walked further down the hall, further into the darkness of the house, the air became colder. He shivered and pulled his jacket more closely about him. He could feel it in the very foundations of the house; the anger, the despair. The stench of death (real or imaginary he didn't know) tainted the still air, and he desperately tried to hold back a cough. Desperately tried to keep from alerting… _something_ to his presence.

He took another step, and then paused. An icy cold breeze ruffled through his hair and over his scalp. When he turned to his right he came face to face with a door. It stood ajar; only a little bit of the coldness inside able to seep out and brush against Sam's face, raising goosebumps on the sensitive skin. He shivered. Then, steeling himself, he reached out with a hesitant hand and pushed the door open. He gave a sigh of relief when he wasn't hit by the supernatural ambush he had been half expecting. The place appeared to be some sort of study or office, judging by the desk and chair that was set against one wall. The thing that drew Sam's attention, though, was the large wooden wardrobe. It was pitch black, sculpted from ebony, and it stood on the far side of the room, directly opposite to Sam where he was standing just in front of the doorframe.

He crept slowly into the room, doing his best not to disturb anything. The desk and chair were covered in cobwebs; Sam shuddered when he saw a huge, hairy black spider scurry into the darkness of its home, which was a cobweb constructed on the back of the chair. _I'm not going anywhere _near_ that chair._ The only things that lay on the dusty desk were an exceptionally cobwebbed lamp and a single sheet of paper that was yellow and brittle with age. Curious, Sam leant over the desk (careful not to brush against any cobwebs) and peered down at the paper. Given the darkness of the room, he couldn't be sure of what he was seeing, but his heart leapt into his throat when he saw the drawing. It was a simple sketch of a dark figure. It appeared to be a large, bulky man, his figure obscured by a shadowy cloak. From under the brim of what Sam reckoned was the outline of some sort of hat, two dots of red pen posing as eyes glared up at him. The figure was surrounded by delicate tendrils of shadow, drawn as wavy lines with a black pen.

He was almost certain that this was a drawing of a shadow person. But who drew it? And where were they now?

Sam was jerked out of his musings by the sudden whistle of wind behind his back. He froze, his exhaled breath coming out as white steam in the suddenly freezing room, and turned around slowly, cautiously.

The spectre was one of a tall, bulky man who was built along the lines of a bear, complete with huge hands, feet and mouth and liberal amounts of hair. He wore an old, large, ripped trench coat and a wide brimmed leather hat. The eyes that glared at Sam were hard and cold, making the teenager shiver; there was a murderous intent in them. This ghost was looking for vengeance, and Sam didn't know if it would decide to take its bloodlust out on him.

For a few moments Sam stood perfectly still as the ghost studied him with those sharp eyes of his. Even as a transparent, colourless spirit, the man radiated power. There was something distinctly feral about him; Sam suspected that he was every bit as strong and wild as the bear he looked like. After what seemed to be an eternity of gazing into those sharp eyes, the man gave him a minute nod, as though giving the young hunter his approval. Sam watched, bemused, as the spirit turned to the desk, gliding over to peer down at the drawing. After a few more minutes of silence, Sam finally found his voice again.

"Did… did you draw that?"

The spectre turned towards him slowly, fixing him once again with an appraising gaze. Then he nodded, the movement just the slightest jerk of his head.

"Is it a shadow person?"

Another nod. Sam swallowed. This silent conversation was getting unnerving, especially when the guy was watching him with such an intense stare. Like he could see right into him.

"Are you Joe?"

Sam was surprised when he got more of a reaction then a nod. The man scowled, inclining his head slightly, and then gestured out of the tiny window situated above the desk. It was so dirty that it let no light in whatsoever, and as such, Sam hadn't noticed it. Frowning, Sam tried to peer out of the window, but to no avail. "Is something outside?" Joe tilted his head to the side slightly, and Sam imagined that he was saying _guess again._ "Or someone?" By the deepening of the scowl and the thickening of the air surrounding the spirit, Sam had hit the jackpot. He swallowed, trying to bring moisture to an abruptly dry throat. "Albert? He told me that you were called Joe. That you had a katana that can kill the shadow people. Was he telling the truth?"

Sam expected another nod or scowl, not Joe disappearing and suddenly rematerializing in front of the huge ebony closet. Caught off guard, all he could do was stare as the cupboard doors swung open, creaking slightly. He gagged, covering his mouth with his forearm, feeling the sting of tears in his eyes as his senses were assaulted by the stench of death. Blinking rapidly to dry his eyes, he peered into the closet, swallowing down a retch. A skeleton huddled at the bottom of the wardrobe, back turned to Sam. A huge black trench coat hung crooked on its bony frame and a leather hat lay clutched in a claw like hand. His eyes flicked to Joe and back to the skeleton, and the man nodded, answering his silent question.

"Albert did… that?" Sam winced when the closet doors slammed shut so hard that the whole structure shook. _God, he killed his own friend._ And yet, jaded as he was, it didn't surprise him. The knowledge didn't even make him angry; it just made him sad. Sad for Joe, who died at the hands of someone he trusted. Sad for himself, because shouldn't he care more? _Stop it,_ he told himself. _Being rebellious was what got you into this mess. Focus on the job at hand. _"Do you know where the katana is?" _Great. Totally insensitive. Dad would be proud._

Joe nodded and then frowned. Sam took that as a _yes_ and a _why?_

"The shadow person, the one that smells like rotting cabbage -" Joe's gaze flicked to the drawing "- is that a drawing of him? He's targeting me – he's almost suffocated me a few times – and I think he's going after my family. You're a hunter?" A nod. "So are we. Me, my Dad and my brother Dean. But we haven't faced the shadow people before, and if this katana can kill them, I really need it. Please."

Once again, Sam found himself being scrutinised by steely eyes. He gazed back at Joe, expression earnest, hoping that the ghost wound find whatever he was looking for, see how honestly Sam needed the means to destroy the shadows.

It seemed he did find what he wanted; he gave Sam a nod before drifting over to the door and beckoning for Sam to follow. Once he was sure Sam was close behind him, he started to lead the teenager deeper into the dingy house. Sam gave a mental sigh of relief when they finally got out of the horrible room; why did it smell so much anyway? _His body's already decomposed._ Perhaps the reason for that was the fact that the house was abandoned; the still air hadn't been moved for years, and therefore the stench had had no chance to escape its prison.

The hall became steadily darker the further Sam followed Joe along it. The narrow space was filled with the smell of damp and decay, the wood rotting and mouldy. It never seemed to end; they had passed countless closed doors on their slow trek through the house. The floorboards creaked and moaned beneath Sam's feet, no matter how lightly he tried to tread. They sounded like they were close to giving way; Sam fervently hoped that there were no holes in the wood, as he would have no way of telling their location. The place was pitch black.

It had been what Sam estimated was ten minutes before the ghost finally stopped in front of a closed door. He briefly wondered how Joe could tell it apart from all the other identical ones along the twisting hallway. The sceptre turned to face the door; it drifted open, and he disappeared. When Sam pushed the door open as wide as it could go and stepped inside the room, Joe was waiting for him by an open cupboard. It was a small walk in wardrobe, covered in dust and cobwebs, the white paint on the double doors almost entirely chipped away by time. He crept closer and saw that a dusty old safe was set into the back wall of the closet, the metal door firmly locked. When the wardrobe was in use it would have been hidden by the hanging clothes.

As Joe proceeded to turn the dial, the scant light in the room started to dim even more. The hairs on the back of Sam's neck prickled; he turned around, looked over his shoulder. Nothing. He gritted his teeth when he saw a flicker of shadow in the corner of his left eye, determined not to let himself be distracted. As soon as that safe was open he would dive in and grab the katana. No shadow people were going to stop him. Joe was up to the third number; a shiver went down Sam's spine. More flickers, a mass of shifting shadow in his peripheral vision. The fourth number, and that was _not_ the faint, far off smell of rotting cabbage. Was it?

The fifth number, and there was a feeling of dread creeping up Sam's spine, raising goosebumps all over his body. The smell of rotting cabbage had become a strong stench, but he was near impervious to it at the moment, with the memory of the odour of death etched vividly in his brain. Nevertheless, he pinched his nose shut and breathed heavily through his mouth, watching the dial slowly turn with the eyes of a hawk.

The last number. The dial turned at the speed expected of an exhausted snail; was Joe trying to give Sam a heart attack? And then there was the click of the lock opening, the door popping open by just an inch, and Sam was diving into the wardrobe, gripping the door handle –

And then suddenly he was on his knees (this was getting familiar), and he couldn't breathe, there was no strength in his limbs – but still he reached up with both hands, managed to find the handle again with his left but he couldn't _see_, his vision was going dark _fuck_ he needed to get the fucking katana but his hand wouldn't goddamn _grip_ – _just clench your fingers damn you, is it that hard?!_ – and everything was going fuzzy and he needed_ oxygen_ –

And then he could breathe again – god he loved breathing – and his left hand was gripping the handle of the safe; he flung the door open and grabbed the katana inside. The blade appeared to be two and a half feet long, contained in a sheath of dark leather, and the hilt, which was three quarters of a foot long, was made of ivory bone. There were various symbols – Sam reckoned they were sigils – carved in the hilt and painted on the leather. The katana secured, Sam whirled around, and paused for a split second to take in the sight of Joe wrestling with his drawing come to life. He held in a sneeze as the stench of rotting cabbage continued to assault his nostrils; this shadow person, the hat man, was the one who had almost killed him.

Trying to be as silent as possible so the hat mans attention wouldn't stray from the furious ghost; Sam slowly drew the katana from the sheath, careful not to scrape the blade against the wooden interior of the thing. It seemed an eternity before he was finally gripping the katana in his right hand, point facing downwards. He shoved the sheath through the left side of his belt and brought the katana up over his head, ready to swing it down and cleave the hat man from shoulder to hip. As he crept closer Joe and the hat man continued with their match, oblivious to his presence. When he was as close to the hat man as was humanly possible, he brought the katana down, the blade singing through the air before it ripped through the shadow creature at the right shoulder, cleaving him in two.

As the blade dug into the shadowy shoulder the hat man turned two glowing red eyes on Sam. There was no expression in those demonic eyes, no expression on his featureless face, but Sam winced when he heard a high pitched keening noise coming from the thing, the cry as gut wrenchingly horrible as the death lament of a banshee. And then the katana was slicing down through the torso, emerging once again through the left hip, tendrils of shadow clinging to the silvery blade. For a moment the creature continued to stand there, suspended in thin air; and then the shadows whipped away, spiralling up like coils of smoke before dissolving into the atmosphere, leaving Sam standing in front of an empty space, gawping like a fool.

Shaking himself out of his temporary stupor, Sam brought the katana nearer to his face, looking closer at the now revealed blade. It was made of highly polished steel, the edge still razor sharp even after its time of disuse. It looked just like an ordinary katana, save for the sigils painted in black at the base of the blade, just in front of the hand guard. Silently thanking the beautiful weapon, Sam slid it back into its sheath and turned around to face Joe.

The ghost looked as intense as ever, but Sam was almost sure that there a sparkle of something like pride in his sharp eyes. Joe reminded him of someone; he just couldn't place who. He grinned at the ghost. "Thank you so much, Joe. For your help. I couldn't have done it otherwise."

For the first time since they had met, for the first time in what was probably years, Joe smiled.

* * *

Sam walked out of the front door of the abandoned house, squinting in the sunlight. He reckoned it was around four o'clock; they had arrived at Joe's house at ten to three. He held the katana in his right hand, gripping the leather sheath. He hadn't forgotten Albert; if the British man had been brave enough to hang around (which Sam doubted) the young hunter would interrogate him and then decide what to do. He was ready to knock him out with the hard hilt of the katana if he had to, though he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

He sighed in resignation when he saw that the old Volvo had disappeared. The cowardly little man was apparently long gone; probably because the hat man was defeated. Albert was probably in league with the shadow people, swayed by promises of what was most likely power or wealth. It was a shame; otherwise good people could be conscripted to the dark side so easily by such unimportant things.

Shoving the katana through his belt once more, Sam winced, rubbing at his temples as he was hit by a sudden headache. Expecting his head to simply throb uncomfortably, he was unprepared for the scorching pain that shot through his skull like a bullet. Giving a yelp of surprise, he collapsed to his knees as images flickered before his eyes, the quality that of a choppily edited movie filmed with a camera that had a very high resolution.

Fade in to an establishing shot. The Impala sat forlorn at the side of the road, locked and abandoned. The fuel gauge read half full, and both of the front tires were flat.

Dissolve to a mid shot of Dean, walking down a dusty driveway, an old colonial house looming on the horizon. He was muttering under his breath, every second word a curse, the others indistinguishable except for the name _Sammy_.

Cut to a long shot of Dean walking up to the front door of the dilapidated building, knocking and waiting. After a long while of silence broken only by Dean's continued mutterings, the hunter walked around the house, yelling for help and peering through all the windows. The whole place appeared to be empty, the nearby barn abandoned.

Fade out. A mid shot; it was midday, and Dean was back at the Impala, slumped against the drivers' door, staring unseeingly into the sunlight, a dark scowl etched onto his handsome features. Cut to a point of view shot; there were flickers of shadows gathering at the corners of Dean's eyes, bringing with them a feeling of dread, anticipation. A shiver went down his spine; he pulled his jacket tighter around himself, frowning in consternation.

Cut to a new scene, the camera positioned on the cars dashboard, lens facing the drivers' seat. It was late afternoon, and Dean was driving down a country road, the Impala rumbling beneath him, repaired at last.

Fade out to night time on the same day. A long shot of the Impala parked at the side of the road, empty yet again, all four tyres flat, seemingly slashed.

Cut to a mid shot of Dean, standing in the middle of the field the Impala is parked by. He spins around, eyes darting every which way. He's muttering again; _you fucker, messing with my fucking car._ Then he yells "Come out and face me, you coward! I saw you running away!" Flashback; Dean is driving the car when a dark figure speeds across the road in front of him. He curses, swerving, and then his eyes widen in horror as the screech of tortured metal instead of the sound of grating rubber reaches his ears.

Cut to an over the shoulder shot. Dean' still in the field, camera following as he whips his head around, searching for the tyre slashing culprit. There are flashes of shadows at the edges of the lens; they are pixelated, out of focus, and continuously darting out of view. The camera is unable to get a clear shot.

That is, until one such shadow being launches itself forward and wraps ethereal hands around Deans exposed neck.

"NO!" It was a panicked yell. Even before Sam was completely released from the grips of the vision he was stumbling down the driveway, blind with panic. If he was right, Dean was going to get attacked. Tonight.

_But how on earth can I get there in time?_

* * *

Note: I hope you can understand film jargon. Or work out what it means, at least. 


End file.
